Delaware's POV:
I entered the house again sopping wet and still crying a little. Here I was, 228 years old (Or 16, in human years), and I was crying my eyes out. Wiping the water out of my eyes, I sighed softly and made my way towards my bedroom. As I passed by America's room, the sharp smell of fresh blood filled my nostrils, making me gag. My eyes widened and I tried to open the door, but it was locked.

"America, are you in there?! Answer me!" I yelled, pounding on the door. No answer came, put I heard the sound of ragged, labored breathing. I backed up and then ran at the door, slamming into it. The strong wooden door didn't even shudder. I fought back a scream of frustration and ran into the kitchen.

"L-Lithuania! Get the keys, America needs help!" I said, grabbing the nation by the wrist. His brow furrowed, but he grabbed the keys off of the table and followed me out. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of the fresh blood. His hands trembled as he unlocked the door and swung it open. America laid curled up on the floor, his face devoid of color. Blood seeped into the carpet around him from cuts in his wrists and arms.

"Call an ambulance! Quickly!" I said, looking wildly at Lithuania. He nodded and backed slowly out of the room, his eyes never leaving America's lifeless form. I knelt down beside my big brother, cradling his head in my arms. His breathing was so shallow that it almost looked like he wasn't breathing at all.

"Why, Alfie? Why would you do something like this?" I whispered softly, tears running down my face.

"Please. Please be alright. We may not act like it, but we all need you Alfie. You keep us all together. You make us a real family," I said, my lip trembling. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small, worn notebook jutting out of America's jacket pocket. I gingerly set his head down and took the notebook. It was his journal.

*                     *                     *Canada's POV:
I paced up and down the white halls of the hospital, running my fingers through my hair anxiously. Delaware was glaring at me, his fingernails digging into the armrests of the waiting room chairs. His eyes turned back to the leather book he had been reading. A nurse entered the room.

"Arthur Kirkland, Matthew Williams, and Daniel Smith," she said, looking around the waiting room.

The three of us got to our feet and followed her into America's hospital room. I froze when I saw America's pale form lying on the bed. He was conscious, but just barely. I stayed back as Delaware and England knelt down beside him. Tears were in their eyes. Why couldn't I cry?! I knelt down next to Delaware, brushing the strands of hair from America's sweaty face. He flinched away from my touch, growling.

"W-why are you here?" he said huskily, turning his head away from me. I opened my mouth to answer, but no sound came out. I could see the scars and new cuts on America's arms and chest through the thin hospital gown that he wore. I couldn't believe that America, the happy-go lucky nation, would do things like this to himself.

"I wanted to see if you were alright," I said softly, my eyes glancing down at my hands. America glared at me. England, who was obviously oblivious to the whole situation, stared blankly at the two of us.

"Why? Why would you care?! You didn't care about Alaska!" America snapped.

"Shut up!" I snapped back, getting to my feet. America raised an eyebrow at me but remained silent.

"Do you really want to know why I care?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest. America nodded, sitting up a little. I glanced at England and Delaware nervously, trying to give them a hint, but they obviously weren't leaving. I uncrossed my arms and hesitantly rolled up my sleeves.

America's POV:
My eyes widened as Canada rolled up his sleeves to reveal the scars covering his arms. The words "worthless", "pathetic", "forgotten", and "unloved" were carved into them along with random cuts that covered almost every inch of his skin. England stood up slowly, staring blankly at my brother.

"That's why," Canada said, rolling his sleeves back down. I didn't know what to say. How long had this been going on? From the amount of scars he had, it had to at least been a few years. Almost just as long as I had. Why had he done it? I was afraid to ask. But no matter how sad I felt, I still couldn't forgive him for what he'd done.